


soon enough, you're gonna think of me (and how i used to be)

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Episode: s04e10 Heaven and Hell, Gen, Mental Institutions, angel!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something wrong with Sam Wesson-Milton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	soon enough, you're gonna think of me (and how i used to be)

**Author's Note:**

> So there’s an AU that has been rattling around my head ever since I discovered the angel!Dean/hunter!Cas pairing, and that’s the one that says, “How did this happen, where’s Anna, where’s Sam, WRITE THIS DAMN THING.”
> 
> And then somewhere along the way it became less about Dean and Cas’s love story and more about Sam. I am a Samgirl through and through, yes.
> 
> Here’s some background: Castiel is the Righteous Man, Anna is the girl with the demon blood, Dean is the angel that raises Cas from perdition (and misses his idiot little brother), and Sam is a fallen angel. Shut up. Oh, and Rogers & Wells is a real New York-based law firm.

Sam has always known there was something wrong with him. His mother was a devout church-goer, always insisted on bringing her family to church. His biological father liked to go to the seminary, and his stepfather was the church deacon, for crying out loud.

But here’s the thing: a part of him gets scared at the very mention of God. He can mask it, cover it up when his mother insists on bringing him to church, but there will always be a part of him that will be more scared of his heavenly Father than of clowns.

And that’s saying something.

He’s nothing if not good at putting up masks, though, and thanks to that, nobody knows that the good little Christian boy isn’t quite as good as he seems.

—

He has a good life. He gets into Stanford and lands himself a position at Rogers & Wells, marries Jess, and has a flourishing law career. No one knows about his little secret, and if he has a choice, no one ever will.

It’s all smooth sailing until one day. He’s reviewing the Duffield murders and preparing his case when pain _explodes_ inside his head, and he drops to the floor and strangles a scream before it can burst out from his throat.

Through the pain, he hears a voice. A familiar voice, though he can’t place it anywhere.

“ _Castiel Winchester is saved._ ”

—

“Sam,” Jess says one day, and oh, that’s her “we need to talk” tone. Sam internally groans, but forces himself to sit down anyway. “Are you okay?”

He plasters a smile across his face. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he tells her.

What he doesn’t tell her is, “ _Actually, no, I’m hearing voices in my head and they keep talking about some people named Castiel and Anna and according to them demons and angels are real and you know the first demon, Lilith? She’s trying to break the 66 seals to free Lucifer from his cage and bring on the apocalypse. Hey, how about that lemonade?_ ” It just sounds crazy, even by his standards.

“Sam, we’ve been married a while,” she says. “I know when you’re lying.”

“I am, really,” he insists. “Look, I’m dealing with it, Jess. I’m fine.”

“You’ve been missing appointments and sleeping during meetings,” she points out, and damn, she knows him all too well. “You’re _far_ from fine.”

“Like I said,” he assures her, “dealing. It’s going to be okay, I promise. Want some lemonade?”

She gives him the side-eye, but lets it slide and lets him go into the kitchen to pour them both some lemonade. It’s a ritual of his to make lemonade when he’s dealing with something—it takes his mind off the problem, makes it focus on the task of making the perfect lemonade.

He’s juicing the lemons when another voice interrupts, and he jumps and looks around before realizing: he’s alone in the kitchen. Jess is in the living room, waiting for him. And there are voices in his head chattering about seals and apocalypses and the Witnesses and the Winchesters and _oh god_ , he’s going mad.

—

He manages to hold it together for a while, but gets into the habit of writing what he hears and dreams in an old notebook that he’s never really paid attention to until now.

In retrospect, he should’ve expected Jess to find it. She can get pretty determined when she wants to be.

“ _Hallucinations_ , Sam!” she shouts, and his world is crumbling all around him, the masks useless now. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going crazy from the stress?”  
“Because I _know_ they’re hallucinations!” he shouts back, but to be honest, he’s not sure anymore. There’s too much that lines up with what the voices keep saying, too much to simply put down to coincidence. “I told you, I’m fine. I’m holding it together, I know what’s real and what isn’t.”

“No,” she says, and she sounds so defeated, so tired, so broken. “You aren’t. You need help, and you weren’t asking, so I asked for you.”

“Jess…” he whispers, reaching out, but she flinches away.

And just like that, his normal, perfect, happy life crumbles into ashes around him, and leaves him standing in the dust.

—

“Sam? Do you know where you are?”

Of course he does. He’s in the nuthouse— _him_ , Sam Wesson-Milton, one of Rogers & Wells’s finest lawyers, now one of the resident crazies that no one talks about and everyone pretends doesn’t exist. Because angels are hijacking his head to chatter at each other, and angels, it seems, are total asshats who don't care about the lawyers who they turn into their human radio.

“Do you remember what you did?”

Uh, yeah, of course he does. He didn’t exactly mean to, but hey, try being regularly picked on by a guy who thinks he’s Napoleon Bonaparte reincarnated while dealing with angels in your head, see what comes out of your mouth.

“You were hysterical,” Dr. Brooks says, her tone calm as she flips through his notebook, the only thing he’s managed to keep from outside the nuthouse. “It took four people to restrain you.”

“I know already,” he replies. “And I was trying to tell him. Everyone.”

“About what?”

He rolls his eyes. “You know already,” he snaps. “You read my file. I think the world’s coming to an end, Lilith’s breaking 66 out of six hundred seals to free Lucifer from his cage, and I’ve got angels using my head as a radio.”

He lets out a breath, then turns his head towards the window. He can hear them, now—they’re chattering about the Winchesters again. That's all that seems to be on their minds, or on his mind, if he really is crazy.

“And?” Dr. Brooks prompts, and Sam just wishes they’d stop.

“They’re going to lose,” he says. “Six hundred possible seals, and she only needs to break 66 of them. There’s no way they can stop her from breaking the amount she needs.”

—

“Time for your meds, Sam,” the attendant says, and Sam turns around and freezes up.

His face is…it’s all _wrong_. There are tentacles protruding from his eye sockets, his teeth are as sharp as a shark’s, his tongue is long and forked and bleeding, and his face looks like it’s _melting_.

“Your face,” he chokes out. “The hell happened to it?”

“Oh, I know, sweetheart,” the attendant purrs. “I’m downright kissable.”

Something snaps in Sam’s head (again), as he backs up against the wall. Instinctively, he flings one hand out towards the attendant, and a chest moves, slams the guy up against a wall.

He runs out the door, snatches up some clothes on his way out, and emerges from the nuthouse, and runs.

—

He doesn’t stop running until he gets to the church, and when he does, he leans against the wall and just breathes in and out.

He knows two things, now: demons and angels _are_ real, beyond a shadow of a doubt, and he. Isn’t. Crazy.

It’s real. All of it. Samhain, Lilith, the 66 seals, the apocalypse, demons, angels, the Winchesters—they’re all real.

He doesn’t notice that he’s laughing until he hears it. It sounds foreign to his ears, broken and hysterical, and more than anything, he wishes he’d never heard those four words while he was reviewing a case that fateful night. He’d still have his wife, his career, his friends, his life. He certainly wouldn’t be sitting in the church in clothes a little too small for him, fresh from the loony bin and hearing angels.

His laughter breaks off into a strangled sob.

God, he preferred thinking he was mad to knowing he wasn’t.

Now the world’s going to end, the way his ended.


End file.
